“ ‘Does your face ache, Mrs. Guppy?’ says the doctor; and—imagine the impudence of the boy—he answered, it was a little troublesome. ‘How is Clarke this evening?—I hear he has been asleep this afternoon.’ I imagine Frank has as much idea of the identity of Clarke as I have—I don't even know who he is, much less that he was ill—but he answered just as Gruffy would do, with her handkerchief up to her mouth, ‘Rather better, sir, I think—he was asleep when I saw him last, and I didn't disturb him.’ ‘Hem,’ said the doctor, ‘and who's this?’ ”
The audience was here so convulsed with laughter that Salisbury could not proceed; Louis could not help joining the laugh, though rather checked by the immovable gravity of Hamilton's countenance.
“Really, Hamilton,” he said, “I wonder how Frank could tell such stories.”
“He doesn't think them so,” said Hamilton, abruptly.
“Well, Salisbury!” “Well, Salisbury!” exclaimed several impatient voices. “The impudence of the fellow.” “How will he ever get out of it?” “Get on, Salisbury.” “The idea of joking with the doctor.” “Go on, Salisbury.” “What a capital fellow he'd make for one of those escaping heroes in romances—he'd never stay to have his head cut off.”
“Well, and the doctor says, ‘Who's this, Mrs. Guppy? Casson? How—what's the matter with you? How long have you been here?’ ‘Just come to bed, sir,’ says Casson; and then the doctor makes a few inquiries about his terrible headache, et cetera; and Mrs. Guppy had a twinge of the toothache, and could only let the doctor know by little and little how she had thought it better to put him to bed.
“ ‘And that is medicine for him?’
“The doctor looked very suspiciously at the cup, I fancy, for his tone was rather short and sulky. Frank seemed a little daunted, but he soon got up his spirits again, and, stirring up the mess, was just going to give it to Casson, when, lo! another strange footfall was heard; doctor turned round (I was in a state of fright, I assure you, lest he should discover me) and in marched the real Simon Pure! It was a picture—oh! if I had been an artist:—there stood Gruffy, in her best black silk, looking more puzzled than angry; Frank—I couldn't see what he looked like, but I'll suppose it, as he says—and doctor turning from one to the other with a face as red as a turkey-cock, and looking so magnificent!”
